age is irrelevant
age is irrelevant a life story made of words
Alexandra Alexis
Copyright Š 2011 by Alexandra Alexis. ISBN:
Softcover
978-1-4653-4480-9
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. This book was printed in the United States of America.
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what’s inside? 0
Bunnies
9
1
An Introduction
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2
Paradoxicality
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3 4 5
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HSP MC
44
Reconstruction 6
All We Do 7
8
Static
Life
66 82
96
About the Author
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without you . . . I couldn’t have written any of this. When I say “you” I mean everyone I have ever met, talked to, befriended, spent time with, fallen in love with, made out with, fought with . . . Well, you get the picture. All of you have touched my lives, and even if I hate you, you have fueled my passion for words and made this possible.
age is irrelevant
Bunnies There he goes, that bunny. The way he hops is so funny. The bunny that’s funny wants his mummy so much he suddenly goes nutty! The nutty bunny hides, for his mother never lies. His mother once said, “When humans are not dead, they have amazingly smart heads.� 3rd Grade
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Alexandra Alexis
an opinionated introduction.
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his is a compilation of works I have written throughout my literary life. They are quite short and may not seem at all correlated with one another. Their placement on the pages will appear arbitrary. The beauty of it is, only I know why I sorted them the way I did. And yes, this is the story of my life thus far. I figured it would be a lot more interesting than an autobiography, but you can always spam my website with hateful comments if I am wrong. (Hint: Check out the “about the author” page.) I decided to publish this for a few reasons. Primarily for the fact that my initial plan of writing an entire novel for my senior project was not working out as I had expected. I work in short, high-energy bursts. This leads to lots of poems, a few five page stories, and one “novel” sitting on my floor, with page fourteen marred by severe writer’s block. This is a huge problem for a writer to be sure, but I have a lot of life ahead of me. I work every day to fix my peculiar ailment with completing projects. That brings me to another reason for publishing this book. I thought it would help me cure said ailment. There’s no way I would blow a chance to insert my words, my precious babies if you will, into a cute little bound paperback that has a (miniscule) potential to sell. As I write this I am beaming with excitement just imagining it. It’s midnight and my parents have been chiding me to go to sleep for the past hour, but that won’t stop me! My third reason is a philosophy I have developed. I don’t believe for a moment that your age makes you who you are, and I am sick of seeing stereotypes of teenagers in the media. It is assumed that all teens are bad at making judgments because of some underdevelopment of the brain that will not be ascertained until they turn twenty-one. This may be scientific fact, but it is heavily exaggerated. I do know some teenagers who have made laughably bad decisions, but they were under the influence of drugs—or in love. (Being in love often shuts off a sector of your brain involved in decision-making. I know this all too well.) Anyone of nearly any age can abuse drugs, fall victim to romance, or make a stupid choice of their own volition because they don’t spend enough time thinking about the consequences. This has never been a solely teenage condition. I want the world to understand that there is more to one’s personality than their age or biological sex.
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I am “only” eighteen years old, but do not decide my book is “amazing, considering how young she is!” If you find fault with my writing, you should not stop to think that I am too young to know better and it is therefore acceptable. I deserve the same level of scrutiny or praise as bestselling, middle-aged authors. My youth is no handicap. As a final note, I want to explain the influences for my works. They are all based on real life, but whether they reflect my own life or someone else’s is up to you to decide. I write fiction and exaggerate the truth in my poems, but I never lie. Every word I write is a truth in itself, an explanation of the workings of the world as I have witnessed them. My foolish dream is that I can save at least one person from making some of the same stupid decisions I have made. And I mean any person—be they eight or eighty.
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Alexandra Alexis
paradoxicality. tiddlywinks and tiny rings. best place to sink into your teeth. a frozen brand of icy rink. forever chosen for its heat. i tell a tale of broken vows. scheming men, ungrateful cows. beauty from within, skin deep. the freest things are far from cheap. to love and lose and have to choose. from falsities full up with truth. there is no refuge from the sun. and once you find it, you have won.
age is irrelevant
Darling Tells it Like it is, Kids You came roaring into me Perspiring with amorous heat Whispering to me “Baby I am incomplete without your burning cheek against my fingertips” Granted you don’t need me and love is only lust elevated morally but as the object of your desire I have learned to recognize the innocence of sin You have taught me how to look within and not cringe at what I see If he is free to do as he please then darling, surely are we.
Master These thin fingers are delicate— please crush them softly.
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Alexandra Alexis
Pained Passion
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here is a boy whose tender words are harsh and grating, whose heart’s magnetic pull is negatively charged but positively powerful, who can wound and heal you all at once, and who holds his tears in his stomach. To you, he is as captivating as a shimmering blade is to a masochist. You are drawn to him against your will, though you long for gravity; you want to hold his tender hand until it crushes yours. His mind is ever turning (perhaps sometimes burning), and slowly you will understand why you miss him while you loathe him just as much. You are in love.
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You Felt Like Love Eternal but you only slipped away How could I have known it? Your bone-crushing embrace screamed codependence, Reluctance to let go (in each sense of the word), and hopeless, heartless lust. my ears were clogged by then, though, so how could I have known it? i only wish you had informed me sooner.
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We’re Not So Much Better Together Face it, tragic creature The respect you spent has fizzled out You never learned to save I tried to help I yearned for love You lost it on our way I’ve searched the Earth But from the heart I believe there is no hope for us Though hope for me? (Yes!) Hope for you? (Yes!) Or so I think, but cannot know.
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$2 for my thoughts (a penny gets you nowhere) I may be young and foolish But I have knowledge and I’ll use it When I simmer in defeat I learn how to better breathe There’s no bad day that isn’t great For everyone commands their fate It is nowhere written down What will happen in this town You have the power to escape Whatever bullshit life creates I know soon my hand will hush My goal is this; that you are touched By these couplets I once wrote Scrawled onto a two dollar note
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Alexandra Alexis
The Awakening
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here was once a small, green-eyed child who was born with the wrong brain. She made her living teaching college seniors advanced mathematics and string theory; she read academic journals to pass the time; she dined upon smoked halibut and sipped sparkling grape juice (if only she could drink Champagne) with her colleagues at monthly dinner parties. She was smarter than every professor she worked with, and her social skills greatly outmatched theirs’. She had the brains and the charms that could incite jealousy or create undying love in whomever she met. At the tender age of eight, with her skills, her job, and all of her money, it’s no wonder that Ramona was miserable. It wasn’t always this way. Before her “true awakening,” as she called it, Ramona was delighted to be different from the children her age. In preschool, she eagerly flipped through Ulysses instead of napping. She laughed gleefully when she discovered that most of her playmates couldn’t read anything, let along her favorite literature. Quickly, Ramona’s caretakers caught on; before she could fall prey to jealous bullying, she was pulled from preschool. Her parents patted her on the head fondly, hired her special tutors, bought her a whole library of new books, and said they had “always known” she was a prodigy. Ramona could tell this was a lie, but was glad they were finally showering her with the attention that most children received unconditionally. At five years of age, it became apparent that Ramona was much smarter than her tutors (who had never met such a child in all of their experience). She was inventing her own mathematical theorems, writing a novel every month, conducting physics labs in her bathroom, and modifying the songs of Mozart and Bach on the piano. Ramona’s tutors quit, encouraging her parents to call up the Ivy League schools and ask about open positions.
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The students were shocked the first day of Ms. Ardell’s Physics 101 when a tiny five-year-old with her dark hair in a bun greeted them and chalked her first name on the board, perched on a stool so she could reach it. “Call me Ramona, please. Formalities are useless communication barriers; don’t you agree?” The class sat dumbfounded. After a long, awkward silence, a young man in the back asked, “Is this some kind of joke?” Ramona stiffened. This was the moment of her awakening. The moment she realized that, no matter her maturity, no matter her intelligence, she would never be taken seriously. She was either a success story or a joke, but never just a smart girl who knew a lot about a lot of things. She saw that teaching would not be as enjoyable as she had expected. Oh, well. She would ignore the man’s statement and begin the lesson, pretending that the whole class were not frozen in their chairs, with eyes fixed upon her as though she were a mutant insect.
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Alexandra Alexis
To a Hippocampus You find your home both in water, Land, and within my brain; You never let me forget, And your teeth bring me pain. You are king of every pond, Full of lily pads and guppies, And you are a great help to me; Processing my new memories. I learned about you first In sophomore Biology, And once again they spoke of you In junior year Psychology! You are a jack-of-all-trades, Large and gray or seahorse-shaped; Round, rotund, yet miniscule? Now I feel this makes no sense! Oh dear, I am a fool. My very own Hippocampus Has failed to retrieve My memory of the difference Between brain structure and beast!
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Uncertainty as Refreshment There’s a magnetism Drawing me to you But the gravity of the situation Is that we can’t compete as two Though our goal is out of reach A desperate cry goes out The hatred will be breached It must For us to be set free From the windows of the world that you fear The windows that I fear (Exposure kills) We’re all the same in every difference you can name Not one of us holds any blame Yet we grasp for it day by day Our pasts have worsened us What does the future hold for us?
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Alexandra Alexis
Rose Gold So he walks across the blackened pavement The lights shining bright beside him Drops of sweat on his chilled face The silhouette stands silently And injects the dream with deadbeat destruction That will help both when they least expect it I would tell you what’s in store But I don’t want to ruin the suspense Or even the false hopes that aren’t incorrect When this is all over and done with It won’t be the end for anyone Except everyone other than you because Gravity bows down to no earnest young man
age is irrelevant
Attraction by Opposition An obsession for opposites Heavy metal and bubblegum-pop Comedy and movies that summon tears Pitch black clothes and bright neon lights Because you can’t be one-sided And also three-dimensional Anywhere but on Earth. Here hate and love intermingle Fall apart, and link again Negative and positive attract But sometimes I sense reluctance Moods change from day to day Let them do as they please For every word that stings you, You’ll find will also heal.
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Alexandra Alexis
A Portrait of Organized Religion as (Self) Repression The duality of nature Is the key to our rapture Please don’t consider it sin When it is truly pleasure Why do we label what we love As wrong to those above Their heads are buried in the clouds They made us this way And we made them to condemn it No one is damned Until they damn themself, my love.
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Sunrise Dwelling silently in a Shining sea of Black and hope, Tears are courage here Where the sultry voice of Despair calls sweetly Without the use of sound. Turbulence and peace Intermingle like long-lost lovers, And defying gravity is A realistic goal Where fraying rays Meet fluid charcoal. For just one night, Clothed in shimmering depths, I am God.
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Alexandra Alexis
Static Sometimes Sound is more Silent than Silence; a Static that lulls you to Sleep. Sometimes Time rushes by, but ever so Sly; upon Waking it’s waving, “Goodbye.”
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The Endless Void of Useless Thoughts Do you intend to suspend the impending doom upon your dead body? This is more than just a folly, the land below is calling you into its open doors. No foolish creature can ignore temptation, longing for destruction of yours truly. Watch the sun fly on past your leaning head, through the sky, into your mind. No measure of your kind can get rid of me this time, I’ll smack your face to the dust. Not one of you bears fruit, do not deny it! You can’t escape, my friend.
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Alexandra Alexis
How do you Steal What was Never There? You are my favorite fantasy A boy without a name A tender touch envisions lust But plays a different game I had you once, in bed at dusk Until the reaper came To chase away my fantasy And play an evil game He whispered in my ear, said he, “You’re only dreaming He isn’t real and when you Wake, you’ll come to screaming.”
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Dear Friend Dear Friend, this is the voice calling. This may very well be our last correspondence. Your latest prescription has not taken kindly to me. I fear I will soon perish, and you will be left friendless, without a voice in your head to guide you. Your psychiatrist has a skewed view of good mental health. However, we must remember the good times, like when you threw furniture at your mother. I was there, instigator, witness, and companion. You may feel like there is no hope. You may feel utterly alone. But there is something I must tell you. My son, Voice the Second, is highly immune to anti-psychotic medication. He’s got quite an imagination, too. He’ll be moving in on the 13th. Yours truly, The Dying Voice
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Alexandra Alexis
Lies About Fish Fish aren’t attracted to worms on hooks, They actually can breathe air! Fish love to sit back and read books, And often times they grow hair. A fish-friend once told me to watch out for Salmon because they will eat your ears. Another exclaimed, quite out of the blue, “I have lived for 5,000 years!” Whales don’t eat krill; it’s the krill that kill them. Cods can light things on fire. Angelfish go to Hell when they die, And shrimp enjoy being fried.
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He Said, She Said God said “Be fruitful and multiply” Not overpopulate He said “A man may not lie with a child” But the Pharisees lied They said “To be a homosexual is wrong” And made His word their own She said “My religion will not warrant this” But dear Your religion is wrong.
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Alexandra Alexis
Pretend They’re Not Intensify the minds of the blind, grind into the explorer’s find, you’ll learn it all in time. Do you know why? I can teach you never to cry as you stand on the line. Keep your head high above the rest I can attest to the imminence of your arrest if you deny the lies you live by.
age is irrelevant
Pinocchio was a Real Boy Enticing as it seems, Faith is not the key To a life lived in innocence. The bitterest sin Is simply a sign that Human emotion Lies within (Take it as it is). The faithless are the only Innocents (unscarred), Because they don’t believe that The bitterest sin Is really so tasteless after all. Sin is a cruel invention (Of the people, for the people, by the people) That fills the faithful with guilt— “Father forgive me, for I have sinned.” The faithless are the only True Innocents Because innocents Don’t have to be forgiven.
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Hypocrisy Promise me this freedom Bouncing eradication of Proper values and statistical Morality is going to continue Its stringent Battle, gaining Power with every Passing hour— We will defeat The Christ-like Creatures who slither Into every new Legislation with Eager gluttony— See, they Are sinners too.
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One too Many, or so They Say On your way down Into the mighty sea, You came upon the key To a heart of three. Brandished in weary hand, The key traveled far From the waters to the land But was deported as contraband.
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Alexandra Alexis
Won’t Will We’re the Pill
I
’m tired of this reasserting the way I feel about you It will never change I will always be bitter Always want to know where you came from Why are you here How could they invent you But nothing will change Not in my lifetime at least There is no hope for my beliefs pitted against yours Even though I am the right one and your prophets are false You won’t listen to me You will call me evil and immoral What a joke that is But you’ll never understand why Your life is based upon the greatest lie anyone ever fell for Your ancestors passed lies down fed them to your grandparents parents you It will never end if you keep the chain strong I wish I could break it so she could find love So she could be happy So she could find the desire to live You’ve ruined it though It might be too late If I can’t convince you of the truth soon she’ll be a bloody corpse on the floor of her grandparent’s house because they trust her too much and You will see the light then but it will be a glaring terrible light that will blind you with anger pyromania more powerful than you have felt before And it will erase my soul from this world forever And I will be crushed you see I don’t want that to happen Who does I wish I could control the course of events to ensure it I wish I could control your thoughts I wish I could destroy your hatred for love I wish I could free you from the box because it would free her too But I can’t free anyone anymore My arguments are moot to them And I will never be an influence unless you let me in I am locked out for now and that’s how you like it Well too bad You’ll see her world crash down upon her And you’ll have to live with the fact that you could have changed fate You could have done something positive You could have saved her better than Jesus saved you But you didn’t Now I’m being pessimistic maybe I can be who you think Jesus is Maybe I can save her better than even you can Maybe I don’t have to wait for you to change Maybe a friend is enough But how do you change a hard-headed brutal point of view Held strongly swiftly barely changing at its core For centuries past and maybe even centuries to come
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You’re Right, and I Don’t Mean Correct Why, you know that boy can’t get along without it But you dismantle him, you doubt it Your views are the loftiest of all and I Must be incorrect for I am so Young and raucously inane Oh but you’re just defending your slow brain You don’t understand the feelings Or the resulting pain That you believe your methods can destroy (But in the process all you do is give it Strength and let it bake and expand Until it’s gooey in the center with strong and Crusty edges.) Well you can’t keep this up forever Because soon he’ll run away He’s so tired of the hate That you label as love You want to shun the truth And kill the innocent dove As he chirps on your shoulder You strike his beak and he is knocked Off balance, falling to the earth But you don’t stop there; once landed you have to Smash his body into the dirt Well it will remain one with the land As a reminder of the sad and twisted words You said one day in order to disband Any chance of his happiness Well good luck with the last decades of your life I’m sure you’ll be fulfilled in your Lonely ignorance And die, still believing you were right.
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Reason’s Prayer I see the beauty in the love that you condemn You respect the lover but not the sin But if these feelings are sinful I cannot Exist by your side, I cannot sympathize With a doctrine of hatred disguised as morality That envelops your heart in brutal totality Not a religion, a relationship? I only see manipulation, abusive relations But you refuse to step back, no investigations Will eschew your solid point of view I am told it is to be understood Not criticized or judged But in every action that I take I feel your eyes, cold upon my face My friend, I loved you more Than you could ever love an enemy, And as for her, I have no words For the intensity you threw away Her heart beats for you kindly, but With utmost care and brevity You trashed the possibilities But I saw the look in your eyes I know what you feel but will not realize Ignorance by choice without Ears open for a different voice
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You fear longings premarital And don’t wish to lead her into “sin” I’m tired of the reasons, repeated The emotions, inexpressible until Your self-control falls, defeated All your life you have been in a box You fight daily to escape Only never quite hard enough And time is fast approaching For you to be set free, officially At least, but not from all the falsities You cling to because you can’t believe In happiness while you still breathe Everyone wants to die So they can begin a new life Above the clouds, without strife And with the being they idolize But I thought you emphasized The sinfulness of suicide It never occurred you that Hypocrisy stirs within you, Gaining strength with every passing Thought of God, and death, and ending life
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Face the reality of the situation Your genuine dreams could be Insatiable, but no! You ignore Them as regrettable, Untamable, you force them to the back Of your priorities And focus on formalities I can’t convince your mind To give leeway to the thoughts Of our kind; thus We’ll be miserable Our ideas are not permissible And will never form the inception Of the truth, the love, the tension In your box, so tightly locked She only wants to find the key That you always hated to see Someday you asked your God To smite it, and to smite me. But my voice will not be silenced And my dreams are always free So I can write these words for you I pray that you can read them, too.
age is irrelevant
Slam Into Nothing Since when has a crush ever crushed you? I don’t mean rejection or failed retention, I mean, “I can’t love you it’s against my religion” I know hatred was not your intention But it’s exuding from you, and pretension too I thought I could deal with the few who thought they knew But it’s dawned on me What I am is not what you accept And my store of patience is in debt I spent it all on your stupidity You paid me back in frigidity I’m tired of waiting for you to change It was so much simpler back in the day . . .
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A Prayer in A or B A: If there is a God out there, I ask of him four things: Send a thank you to my friends, Let me forget my past troubles, Open my eyes so I can find my love, And give me armor to defend myself from evil. B: If there is not a God out there, I ask of me four things: Thank my friends graciously, Stop dwelling on the past, Keep searching and have patience, And learn some self-defense. I think I’ll do what I asked me to.
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At a Time Like This, Logic = Love This is a revolution of utmost rarity It isn’t on a stage Or in a country you can see It’s in the hearts and minds of logic In the intelligence of love Because they finally Believe that Belief’s not from above
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HSP MC I’m a classic HSP Emos got nothin’ on me A simple scalding word Becomes a fatal burn But I am used to this Pain, it’s ridiculous I need a holiday But one just came my way And now it’s slipped Through my tiny fingertips I guess there’s no use in this Pain— It’s ridiculous. Note: HSP stands for Highly Sensitive Person, which is a term that applies to people who are emotionally vulnerable and often have heightened senses.
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Out for a Stroll I’ve got miles to walk before I talk the talk because I refuse to boast or make a premature toast I’m damn obsessional Here’s my confessional I’ve got miles to walk before I talk the talk I draw closer to the top Control grows; it’s my crop but I wish I could say that I’m not! With dismay hang my head on the desk tap my fingers—I can’t rest now, not with these urges to finish, coming in surges So though I’m sick and tired of her vicious brand I know it holds truth and my mind can’t get loose from the possible fate of a girl and her mate or the ring of the phone just can’t leave it alone but I do realize I need to shut my eyes . . . I’ve got nowhere to walk
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Alexandra Alexis
Just a little Something I Wrote While Waiting for the Phone to Ring Nonsensical paranoia charged by the little things in life little hints mean big things baby little smiles mean the world to me little embraces and the happy faces little brush-offs and the bustling places little freak-outs running secret races little frowns with tears run-down by dependency you mean the world to me I mean something to you but I’ll never know what something is.
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Textbooks on my Bedroom Floor Piling up Like so many discarded bodies The surface barely skimmed Yet they’re already Lifeless
Alliteration Assault This tenuous touch Fills fateful foes With withering woes And antigravity antiquities Questioning queer quails Upon under-appreciated urns Carrying catering croissants Barely bloating blubbery Guests grinning and glittering Ransacking rambunctious rabbit Holes hoarding hoes Or odorous orchids.
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Not my Style, Crocodile Oppression of a whole No relaxation for your soul The painless battering of faith Is the misery too late? The dying are often more alive Than those who walk and talk The living are taken by surprise The dead have peace under a rock
Blind Tell me where your scene lies within your Tired eyes a time besides that in which reside the Demons of our rhymes Stick it to the democratic tribe intense within your idealistic Mind I’m tired of your words repeating harshly with the times Reverberating valiantly you’d like to think But I think they are blind.
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This is an Angry Monologue
O
h, don’t you resent them so? There they sit, perched above us all, staring down and bathing in the glory of thin air, while we live our lives and make our homes like tiny ants without a queen, for they cannot be our rulers, they do nothing to help, to contribute to the tumultuous ant-hill of our broken society. Honey, you don’t want to be like them, they cannot choke in the absence of pure air, they simply laugh at the emptiness and fill it with sweet nothings and rich somethings that we ants will never have in our entire, monotonous lives. But, take pride in this, that the captors of us ants will never achieve perfection, never rise above their own pathetic “problems,” because their lives are just masks for their souls, and nothing they seem is really what they are at all!
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Alexandra Alexis
And then it was cold; and he saw that it was good. We only stab backs To save our own Words escape quickly Our minds don’t have CONTROL needs time To work its magic Lies brew faster Than a confused TRUTH is hidden In our hearts But such a matter Leaves them too COLD.
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Something that Means Nothing Ring in my fingers, Roll in my hand, The talking’s not ticking,
The cell phone’s not walking, Can frogs really croak?
Is forever the plan? Choking in laughter, Moping in hope,
Air in my windpipe, Rules in my ears, This just isn’t working, Can we tire of fear?
Disproving the Age-Old Saying Shocked thumps Drive a heartbeat Into your skull. It drips down your nerves; You tremble with fear. What you don’t know Can hurt you.
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Alexandra Alexis
A Quick Flight with a High Fare Sometimes the sorriest sentiments Send young hearts a-flutter; Softly simmering in defeat, Crying under a pillow’s heat Is where they soon shall be: For flight lasts never long enough.
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Disappointment As the pencil scratched swiftly across the page You were sure it would be a success. When it was done you read it to yourself Over and over again; So proud of your accomplishment, of the way it flowed and Shocked even you, The author, With its surprise ending. When a classmate read it aloud They messed up the rhythm, misinterpreted the emphasis on A word (or two). Everyone else’s stories were more popular. You wanted to scream. Surely you knew that narrative better than any judge, Any listener in the room. Why did it seem so good in your own eyes and ears? It was only a failure. You overestimated your abilities. Or maybe it was just bad luck. Maybe some stories need more time to be digested Before they become palatable. Speaking, listening; They too are talents Not easily mastered.
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Alexandra Alexis
The House of Angst Just make yourself A shimmering black void To drift in and out of; Shove a bed or two inside And call it homeMaybe you can decorate a bit! Prepare your unjust desserts In the solace of a Kitchen fit for one, Humming morose lullabies As you slowly bake. But most importantly, Lock your doors and windows, And make sure no strangers, Foes, relatives, parents, nor Friends can ever enter.
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I am the Girl She is a blind girl Spinning stories through Her limited visibility And insight bleeds Into oblivion when She loses, gains, Only to lose once more History repeats itself but She longs to escape it Will she defy gravity And break the bonds That choke her?
Escaping Fate It’s never too late to escape Returning safe, soundly to home plate But with the wait and all The weight of the situation is That you had better not let fate Take the reins today Control your hate with tepid touch And ruin slumber in your rush A facet of a much sought-after Soul bereft of hope, a mush Without the strength to hush Before him, hiding in the brush
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Wishes and Necessities Hold Two Different Identities There is no solace I can give you in your time of disparate need for you see I am a reaper come to put you on your knees with the paddle I wield bravely and the knowledge I have gained I shall rape you of your dignity until another day
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Paradise Imagine We feast upon the shards of glass That shatter south among the eaves The birds watch, sullen Cawing incessant We throw daggers of ice At their feathered backs They protest not With glancing glares And moans of ecstasy impending The doom is refreshing We bathe in its baths And never surface Now we are baptized You and I Suitable for paradise— If only it existed.
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Alexandra Alexis
The Sobering Truth I’m sorry to say that I require you To be sober at the time of our Sobering interaction In which we shall discuss Your current faction And the sobering decisions You have made to remain Soberly Drunk, High, and Blind.
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A Ghost Send me down dear, Disapprove my decisions. I don’t live by them, I deny your existence! You are here, but you’re only a ghost.
To a Smart Boy Turned Stupid What am I to you? Only a flicker in the low light Of your meager, Miserable life, And you try to combat the strife With a sharpened star Or an illegal knife. Who are you to ask me Who I am to tell you What is right? Yes, get angry at my aid, And glare at my generous glances. I am not on Earth For the benefit of your failing Finances.
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Alexandra Alexis
Sometimes Karma gets a Little Carried Away
S
he’d held them in all afternoon and evening, but once she was in the arms of her bedspread, she let them flow. The tears dripped down her cheek and cascaded onto the sheets, moistening the fabric. “How could you, Danny? How could you?” she sobbed. Danny asked himself the same question as he pulled up to a traffic light miles away. In the instant the light turned green, he gunned the gas pedal. He had to see her soon. He had to apologize. If he hadn’t been in a rush he might’ve noticed a dingy, red pickup truck speeding towards him from the left. The drunken operator of said vehicle ran his red light, swerving side-to-side—and crashed right into Danny’s little Toyota. “Oh, screw him,” she thought, completing her last sniffle of the night. “I need sleep.”
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The Impossibility of Knowledge What were the odds that I’d end up this way? What were the odds that I would grow up to be me? What were the odds that time would lead to today? What were the odds that these words would come to be? Trust in me, the odds know nothing, and neither do we.
Ophelia You drowned in water, Far more comforting than the truth: The man you loved dead, The boy you loved, the killer. If you had only known . . . But no. The truth would have drowned you faster.
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Now Bound in Admiration and Hatred Intentional desecration of a thriving island nation for the sake of honor maintenance “For my men’s lives your innocents shall evaporate or face a life disfigured; poisoned in the lungs and heart, “A Country Scarred Eternal.”
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low
ollow adj. 1. Having an indentation or inward curve: She had hollow cheekbones, but that couldn’t stop her from feeling huge. 2. Having a cavity within: Her stomach was hollow as she buttoned her baggy coat which was three sizes too large, at least. 3. Reverberating like a sound made in or by beating on a large empty enclosure: Her sneakers padded along the sidewalk softly, the sound hollow in her ears. 4. Lacking in real value, sincerity, or substance: Her father’s daily “Good morning” was hollow, automatic. False: Her assurance to her friends of having eaten breakfast was hollow, and none of them believed it. Meaningless: Her smile was hollow, and inside she wanted to scream until her lungs shriveled up. Hollow n. 1. A depressed or low part of a surface: She could almost fit in the hollow of the old oak tree that she used to climb. 2. An unfilled space; cavity, hole: Often she imagined her heart as an empty hollow and nothing more. Hollow v. 1. To make hollow: She wanted to hollow out her body until she was a walking skeleton. 2. To form by a hollowing action: They hollowed out a large hole in the ground by the old oak tree she used to climb. To become hollow: The disease had hollowed out her body until she became a skeleton that could not walk. Hollow adv. 1. So as to have a hollow sound: The wind echoed hollowly on her coffin, which was smaller than most to save money (and because, with her, they could get away with it). 2. Completely, thoroughly: She had hollowly wasted away, and now they buried her silently in a low hole in the dirt.
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Nefarious Nonsense There were Glorious grabbling gibbons driving delirious deer underneath ultimate ultramarine mammalian mammoths from Monsanto where withering watermelons are worshipped like lackadaisical lollipops or oscillating organics are opposed with fervently ferocious fury. There are twenty tentative tenants addicted to audacious adverbs such as “silently,” “subtly,” and “soundly” who banter briskly by bicentennial billfolds and enjoy entanglement or entering the enemy through colossal coronaries hiking holes higher than hillbillies in the imminent iodine impetus.
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The Peter Pan Complex The world ahead of us: The stunning, shimmering Mass of mayhem and Amassing amounts of money monthly; Yes, overwhelming is the thought Of a real future . . . Won’t you take me to Neverland?
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Reconstruction Riptides wash your heart’s intent Into the mines of sealed respect, Where, laden with burden of love you sit, Can you recreate your heart, content?
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We battle bravely in the name of toppling a “faith” that infects our lives.
Fight For You could fight for your country, for the good of the people, the pious and healthy who stand by the steeple. You could fight for your family, for your runaway sisters, a negligent father, with a secret young mistress. You could fight for authority, for the bad cops and all, the overbearing teachers who want you to fall. Or You could fight for true friends, and those you hold dear, stand tall with your allies, stare down what you fear. But when times are rough, and you’ve got nothing else, and your pals aren’t there, you can fight for yourself.
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Finding the Cure I’m just a messenger, Making billboards for the blind So they can see through the shadows That engulf their very life. To open up dead pupils Is the reason for my strife— I am exhausted but satisfied. Among these humble beings, Blindness is a condition without reflection, Only to be cured by proper inflection Of which is my purest intention.
So Much More than a Conveniently Placed Safety Net When you fall from grace When the hopeful dream shatters The soul who saves yours Will lift you up Higher than you ever were before.
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Wanted: Man with Long Arms Cynical, jaded attention deficit a moment lost tell me how your mind’s cogs turn rolling too fast to brake too slow to escape your glorious distractions they draw you more than I do, I fear, my dear, the silence, the separation between our souls I thought they were kindred as the saying goes but I doubt my mind’s cogs, they turn too fast to understand too slow to feel the fading confidence I know it lives within but it is lost inside where I can’t reach, can you?
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Under Lock and Key or Free, We’ll be Together Run with me, my friend, Away from all this madness, Away from angry allies Vainly wishing we would Go our separate ways. Rebel with me, my friend, Against our so-called leaders, Against our angry allies Sorely hoping we would Obey without a pause. Escape with me, my lover, Break free from ball and chain, Break free from angry allies Only praying we would Stay locked inside their cage. But if we must be Engulfed by all this madness, If we must, then, lover, In the madness we’ll converge.
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With it or Without It
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hy do I get high off your scent when you say “Hi” in the hallway? This is my final moment in time before I aspire to climb the massive tree of life, the universe, and everything while I search for the answer that I have only twice felt upon my fingertips. Let me give you my advice—it is hard to keep this up, so I would hereby end this rhyme, because with it or without it you and I will be just fine.
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March Along I go Across old gravel roads Dusty and aged by the oath Of time’s destruction And the rhyming roaming Instructional dysfunction Infused with temporal Reduction by experts Keen in their efforts But diminished in their Hope I, on the other hand, Refuse to mope about Refusals to elope Even though I would If they ever should occur—but I know That such rejection Will not show It’s shaven, stubbled head In my life, Or by my bed.
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M.D. Renegade monkey of dire necessity enlisting my aid for your lack of brevity rambling through town as your pants get worn down you tell me I’m pretty in my snowy white gown but I spot in your eye a glint of surprise when I turn down your offer and take to the skies I can soar without you and you could fly too but you made the mistake oh if only you knew
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More than just Spilled Milk There was a boy who spilled his soul In the ears of a girl named Idaho. At first she tossed her head about, Large chunks of his spirit flew right out. But shifting on the wind of love, she found His soul did not intrude, nor make her frown. It filled her heart with sadness, though, So together now on a boat they row To a world of dreams made real, and hope . . . “Idaho, throw me the rope!” Yes, Idaho threw him the rope.
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Un-Self Help Falling into the same torturous Hell, Both pitied the other as unwell In blush of cheek and health of soul: You didn’t save yourself. Climbing the steps and tumbling down once more, We truly thought our hearts lay on a floor Below our feet, too low to reach: I didn’t save myself. Young hearts and souls may run away And others close seem far today, Yet they approach; so suddenly appear! Perhaps you think we’ve reached new lows, Immersed in sorrow to our toes . . . You would be wrong, of course. We never learned to save ourselves But that’s because we were alone. Now we exist, not separately, Just as a single entity: Together, We saved each other.
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I’m not always right, but I tell the truth, he whispered.
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he was not accustomed to such earnestness. There were no polite displays intended to slowly charm her into acceptance, and there was not an ounce of hesitation. The core of his being was honesty. He said all that was on his mind and he was not ashamed of his desires. Anyone else could have told her these things and she would have turned away in disgust. But when the words escaped from his mouth they carried with them the powerful innocence of a child. His crudest thoughts were far from sinful. They painted a more truthful picture of the human condition than science or god ever could. They showed her how lust and love could coexist and even intertwine until they were so inseparable that they morphed into a single emotion—unadulterated peace. Trent always found sugary foods quite dull, and was equally bored by sugar-coated sentiments. Thus, he could not help but offend people. This worried him because April was the last person on Earth he wished to anger. At first, he didn’t think she could handle his abrasive love but it was the only kind he had to give. He had lavished it upon lovers in the past but they had quickly recoiled in pain, so Trent almost gave up on April. She’s too delicate, he thought. Yet her eyes seemed so raw that, upon closer inspection, Trent decided she had a hard edge waiting to be born. He would teach her to adore honesty and detest the mindless flattery that had bruised her. He would roughly massage her back to strength. The surprising thing about Trent was that he gave off the initial impression of being quite soft. He had a baby’s face and his fingers were luxuriously smooth. He told cheerful jokes and said silly sentences to tickle the fancy of new acquaintances.
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But this is only a first impression. Trent was adamant that the people he was close to would return to him the honesty he always gave them. He was frustrated with secrets and double meanings and it seemed, sometimes, that he did not respect the boundaries of personal information. To him, trust between two people meant sharing everything, even those deep secrets that we shudder to tell another. Thus, he had very few friends, and his opinion of the human race suffered greatly. As Trent spent more time with April, he felt a rare hope for humanity. He was going to have the trusting bond with her; he simply knew it. Behind his eyelids in the days to come were crisply clear images of his hand combing through her hair while she told him about her past and all her bad decisions. She wondered if she were stupid. Being Trent, he told her that she had been exceedingly retarded, but had, thank god, learned well from her mistakes. In his mind she was not miffed, nor did she demand a watered-down answer. He wondered how she would take it in reality. The dream always ended fixed upon her face, her eyes gleaming with immense inner power. Trent soon concluded from this that she could grow to embrace his prickly honesty as though it were a small, fluffy animal. Her eyes carried glittering pools of strength and were rough and blurry on the edges, as though they required a good sanding down. He hoped she would let him bring them into focus.
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Prison Break Break free from tangled veins And raise the chains Chastity is free but Just tell me what I need To shatter our creed Twist and shout Lower the stakes And let me out I promise I’ll be good I promise that we’ll last But it will be a raucous Ride along the way If you can stand it I hope you’ll stay.
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Forbidden Ridiculous concoctions Of self-deprecating Silent auctions Bubbling in vats And crashing in at Busy junctions Eradicate your function Before you leave the Woman with the Rough and tumble brother Who will rebel against Their hating mother Who doesn’t understand The lover or the Tumult of emotion Warranted commotion Good behavior demanded And feelings reprimanded As terrible taboos to be Dysfunctionally and Promptly Destroyed.
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A Prayer Darling, the night is falling, And I know you are alone In state of mind, but in Reality you’re slowly being Choked by blood relations; None are worthy of your love Who have raised you from the dust Without an ounce of comprehension Of your soul inside and out, As I think have— But that’s a lie. You are far too complex For me to unfurl. Only in Wild fantasies am I Adjacent to your open heart, And this poem is a prayer To the airwaves that my Love will touch you Beyond words.
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D_ar Darling, In an ill lit room I rollick with you— An arrival of holidays, Is inspiration for our intimacy (Or that is your assumption). Stallion of my own world, You slowly lift my torso Skyward, our souls flying North! (Not south as is thought.) Foolish humans cannot, Will Not Bring Us Down.
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All We Do We’re one and the same Searching for a private fame With everything left to gain Boundless, riotous, ready But we can’t stay steady With our bodies; only our hearts Will win the war in which There is no blood, in which All we do is love.
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birth of a life well-lived sitting on the edge of a treacherous ledge my mind leaps over the hedge where it proceeds to wedge itself into a dredge basking in the sun by a son of a gun if you think that’s an insult then you’re missing all the fun instincts made me run and now it’s almost done there was a little girl who’s tiny world unfurled before her squinting eyes her hair straightened from curls the colors formed a whirlpool of twisting swirls
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I Refuse to be Alone Physics is not the force behind the movement of my heart spinning blindly into yours. The course of my love has no roots in an equation full of numbers or details of meters, seconds, mass. My emotions are not calculated by mathematicians working blindly seated safely at a desk alone. I will never be like them, and I am thankful.
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A Boast of the Anglo-Saxon Persuasion I am a writer of fresh visions. My life-book Holds within it haunting horrors And beautiful, bantering beasts. Behold! Music, too, will flow from these fingers In time. For now, I fumble fearlessly On the keys of the ivory-path, Advancing aggressively forward. Along the path I clear any precipice With my logic and love; I know hatred is caustic and corroding So I leave judgment for the jury. Join me! All you misfits, all you miserable; For I will not sell your soul.
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How Romance Begins in an Imaginary Dystopic Future
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t was a large, bustling crowd, the kind that made her anxious. Panic seized her as snippets of conversation overheard became a single, massive conglomeration of sound, like an organized assault upon her ears. She was rushing through now, almost tripping over her own feet (and the heels of those in front of her) when she decided to raise her eyes up from the floor. She hated to see such a mass of bodies all in one place, hastefully brushing past each other and yet barely acknowledging the electrical shocks of physical contact at each stranger’s touch. So why had she willingly looked up to face her greatest fear? There are certain magnetisms between people that radiate from their faces and their gait, and until you have met that human magnet who can wordlessly attract your gaze without any warning, you will not understand why Braelyn’s chin rose the treacherous length of five inches that brought her eyes to lock upon his. He had the chiseled face of an old hawk who had always caught the most prey but never found any to his taste. His eyes were arrows with infinite reach and his nose was a powerful beak. Yet every part of him exuded youthful curiosity and his piercing eyes were not emotionless. Far from it, they were full of the murky puddles of fear and the shimmering drops of yearning. Braelyn had never seen such a beautiful paradox, and the anxiety escaped through her awed exhalation. In all her previous panic, Braelyn’s mind had lost its directional abilities. She took the opportunity (which could rarely be said about her) to turn and sidle into Lane #2, slowing
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as un-deliberately as possible to let her new discovery catch up. But these magnetisms are powerful, and they know when an approach has been planned. Thus the boy raised his eyebrow before Braelyn could open her mouth to ask, “Where is Mental Health #17?” “Looking for something?” He smiled, perhaps a little deviously. “Yeah, Mental Health #17—” The boy’s elated grin caught her off guard. Was he happy she had issues? Was it falling to pieces already? “That’s where I just came from! Come on,” he beckoned. Braelyn stood dumbfounded for the second it took her to realize the source of his happiness. In his impatience, he grabbed her hand and nearly dragged her back into Lane #1 and behind him. Braelyn was scared when she saw his hand reach for hers. She almost drew her twitching fingers into a fist, but the magnetism did not allow this. Instead, it welcomed the foreign fingers as they interlaced with hers. They fit together like the inner-workings of a perfectly engineered padlock, and the subsequent electricity Braelyn experienced was not painful. It was an ecstatic buzz that zipped through her bloodstream and sped up the pounding organ in her chest. So she didn’t shake off his hand. Her steps soon matched the velocity of his and they quickly reached the building, panting up the stairs. “Why did we have to run?” Braelyn complained, but she was smiling. “‘Cardio aces the test against stress!’” he quipped, mocking the famously annoying advertisement. Braelyn laughed, then sighed, thinking of the task at hand (while noticing that her own was still in the boy’s electric grasp). “Well . . . I won’t keep Dr. Mercuro any longer,” she muttered, reluctant to let go. The boy relinquished her fingers but did not leave. She expected him to wave goodbye and turn back, but he simply leaned against the wall and glanced at her oddly. “What? I’m waiting here for you.”
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“For an hour and a half? You don’t have to do that . . .” She was surprised by his offer, but also deeply flattered, a feeling that made her uncomfortable because she rarely experienced it. “It’s quite alright! And anyway, I have music.” He pointed to a small circle on his left wrist. Braelyn thought fondly of her antiquated iPod. Though multimedia tattoos were popular, she couldn’t stomach needles. Besides, the body was electrical enough. Returning to reality, her eyes grinned at the mysterious boy whose existence she’d only learned of minutes ago. “Thank you” was all she said, because she could not put the true extent of her grateful awe into words.
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Facing Fears A sudden burst of awe: Fear exits the soul More swiftly than it appeared. Muscles relax and tense All in the very same moment, The same minute speck Of never-ending time.
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This Isn’t Supposed to Make Sense Never have I met Someone so elastically Emphatic ecstatic Ready for futuristic Mathematics Delusional acrobatics And combat Against frustrating Fanatics As you, my Love
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It’s So Much Better when the Feelings are Mutual I saw you staring at me—well I couldn’t see it but I knew you were. And I imagine your eyes gleamed in such a way as to make my heart bleed—wait, it does that anyway—but bleed with exuberance and blissful painful roller-coaster peace, not due to necessity or because my brain needs oxygen; for your speech is enough to choke me up— and the redness rushes to my cheeks like it never ever does— your words make the flow of air cease. Yes, I know you’re staring at me for I can sense the feelings welling up within your head and heart and hands—they tremble— And my heart bleeds with joy because your hands tremble for me.
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On the Brain’s Annoying Ability to Play on Repeat The melody rings inside my head, Eardrums thumping rhythmically. (Bum bum) . . . Fingers tapping on my desk, Pencil writing gingerly. (be dum) . . . Is it the sound my pencil makes As it play its empty instrument? (bum bum) . . . Or is it the song that flows throughout This wild space within? (be dum bum).
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Please Don’t Lecture me on my Grammar Take a walk to the edge, Tiptoe if you will, Inch by inch You’ll breathe in the wide expanse. It’s beautiful and all, But falling all those miles Could never help your soul. You’ll see it all in time, Lose your balance, Scream for help. I’ll be right behind you, Hold your hand and save you. And you’ll see I need you too, You need me, We need we.
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First Race He being brand-new (trembling with fear, unsure of what to do) I “Shh’d” him softly to shut up his heavy breathing Gave an encouraging pat to coax him (and keep him still while I fetched the saddle) His wild eyes, brimming with Surprise I eased myself on top with care Tilting forward slowly Let out the strange sound (inhuman, like a creature of the night) that manipulates instinct and bristles his fur I brace for the initial hurt of impact. He obeys my call (that universal phrase for “go”) and with reluctance left behind my horse runs for the finish line. Inspired by “she being Brand/-new” by e. e. Cummings
The Greatest Fall As I’m tripping softly into your embrace the thoughts erase my fear, drawn like sidewalk chalk, reduce it to a smear, pathetic, sitting on the pavement, fading lowly, asymmetrical. You don’t allow its triumph in the war of our love for we are far too gone to merit doubts inside the house of terror’s bouts. And “Satan”? We will crush his opposition, but “The LORD” we shall crush first, because the one who watches over us never wrote a book. The book of life is love, and cannot be written down; what I write tonight is only sight that fails to see what lies deeper than the word. The “love,” you see, is only the beginning of a story never to be written but felt deep within. Only to be felt within us both.
Life We all roll softly On the same wide road And maybe we don’t know That we can know Where we go Behind what’s visible And tangible We reach out to nibble The grapes of our little Insignificant lovely Lives of dire strife And open eyes We long to taste the Traces of ecstasy We’ve felt as the Years have swept us by but if we stop to think And start to strive We can have all the fruit From every vine
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about the author. Alexandra Alexis is the part of Kyla Campbell that lives for writing; the emotional, lyrical side to a woman full of dualities. You could say she is Kyla’s best friend, but that makes Kyla sound like she has no life. Perhaps “partners in crime” is a better description of their relationship. Stalk her at http://alexandraalexis.webs.com/